


Best Left Forgotten

by Sintero



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drax has dual cocks, Kyln, M/M, Prison dynamics, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/pseuds/Sintero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Peter Quill, and it’s not the horror of the Kyln that scares you so, it’s the dawning realization that at any moment you are going to collide with your 680 pound, concrete-thinking past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Left Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt fill for V-Bird/BBB35.
> 
> "Peter had been in the same jail as Drax, and became Drax's 'bitch'. Though they actually sorta fell in love, and Drax was upset when Peter broke out. But he's happy when Peter comes back so he can nail Peter in the showers."

Your name is Peter Quill, and you can’t help but marvel at the deep seated familiarity of it all: the countless faces screwed up in anger and malicious glee, the cacophonous jeering that rattles your bones, and the cloying stench of too many bodies in close proximity. Memories best left forgotten assail you as you stumble through the intake hall of the massive prison complex.

Five years went by far too quickly, between your first and most recent incarceration in the Kyln. To be fair, this time was not your fault by any means. Sure, you may have earned a bit of karmic retribution by underhandedly stealing the orb straight out of Yondu’s greedy fingers, but you never asked to have your ass royally handed to you by the Jolly Green Giant’s little sister, a raccoon, and a talking tree. You could have been perfectly happy never seeing this god awful place again...never having to avoid seeing certain familiar faces again.

You automatically go through the motions of your day on tenterhooks, skin all but vibrating with anxiety. It’s not the horror of the Kyln that scares you so, it’s the dawning realization that at any moment you are going to collide with your 680 pound, concrete-thinking past. And when the call for ‘lights out’ echoes throughout the quad, gaining traction in the reverberation of a thousand voices, you hesitantly make your way to the communal sleeping chamber with your motley band of misfits in tow.

It’s not a good idea to be alone right now.

You sit down heavily on the ground and hang your head between your knees, bracing yourself against the inevitable. Unwashed bodies shift around you like a living carpet. Only the occasional snore punctuates the soft truce of asynchronous breath and subtle rasping of shifting fabric. It’s oddly soothing.

Before sleep can fully take you, you are abruptly wrenched back into consciousness by the tell-tale sounds of struggle. You scan the room blearily and panic hits your gut, sluicing through the sleepy fog in your mind like a lightning bolt. Those assholes took Gamora. There’s a five second delay while you internally debate whether to risk a run in with your past by venturing off alone or to save your reluctant ally from a slow, nasty end in the showers.

Ultimately, your humanity wins out and you stalk quietly down the corridor. Your steps are slow and silent as you work your ankles to roll your foot instead of striking with your heel. Stealth is not a mantle that you wear often, but its merits were beaten into you long ago.

You round the corner in a crouch and scan the room. A knowing ache takes up residence in the pit of your stomach. This has the makings of a trap.

As you stand and quickly begin to approach the struggling silhouettes ahead of you, it springs.

“Hello, Quill.”

He’s just as he was five years ago, a breath-taking mountain of a man. The scarified history of his life hugs every bulge and valley of his exposed chest, and you know from repeated experience that the markings do not simply stop at his pant-line. Your heart beats out a steadily increasing tempo that you can feel in your bones and you can’t help but to take a clumsy step back, to put physical distance between him and the dissonance in your mind.

“Drax,” you whisper. And that single utterance is weighted in a tangle of emotion that you can’t even begin to dissect. It’s as if the years you spent trying to erase the pain of memory were entirely inconsequential.

“Shit. Long time, no see,” you say, face splitting with a huge grin that doesn’t reach your eyes.

Drax glances at you askance, expression unreadable, and turns to speak to the three inmates that are expectantly pinning Gamora to a rust-laden shower wall.

“Release the assassin and leave us. I have what I need,” he orders brusquely.

“But Drax, this is _Gamora_. You’ve been waiting for years to av…” one of the gang members begins, only to have his wheedling, nasal voice overwhelmed by Drax’s roiling baritone.

“If I must turn around and find you still in my sight I will tear your head clean off. Now, release Thanos’ daughter and GO!” As he roars the final word, you flinch and stare up at him, eyes-wide in startlement. He cuts an impressive figure, all quivering muscle and simmering fury backlit by the flickering lights of the corridor.

Gamora allows herself to be shuffled out of the room. She quirks her head and locks eyes with you in silent question, but keeps her counsel silently when you wave her along.

Suddenly the room is silent and heavy with weighted expectation. With several measured strides, Drax comes to a standstill directly in front of you, so close that you can feel the heat of him on your skin and smell the rich, spicy scent of his breath. Tension thrums in the six inches between your bodies.

It’s been five years since you’ve seen the blue, mountain of a man. Five years in which you tried your damnedest to forget ever having to fuck your way into his good graces in a desperate bid to escape your first prison sentence relatively unscathed. You think back on all of the blood and bone that Drax waded through to keep you safe, and wince at the flush of guilt and shame that takes root in your chest at the memory of purposefully abandoning him during your first escape from the Kyln.

His love of you was genuine, you think, even though in your duplicitous mind the relationship you shared was no more than the trading of currencies. The use of your body freely given in exchange for his protection.

Despite the horrors that Drax must have perpetrated to get a life sentence in this hell-hole, he doesn’t deserve your particular brand of cruelty. And so, you hesitantly step forward to wrap your arms around his muscular sides and press your face into the broad expanse of his neck. You don’t need his specific brand of protection any longer, but you can give him this at the very least.

“Did you pine for me, Quill? Did you orchestrate your own capture in an attempt to return to my arms?” he asks, breaking the silence, and you can hear the real question of ‘why did you leave’ in the tone of his voice.

You exhale heavily and your mirthless laughter comes out as a series of breathy huffs against his bare pectorals.

“Yeah, Big Guy. Sure did. Couldn’t wait to get back.”

There is a visible easing of tension in his stance, emphasized further by the subtle softness of relaxing muscle beneath your cheek.

And that’s the thing about Drax. All of your machinations, all of your empty words of flattery and professions of love are taken at face value. He unerringly believes the drivel that falls from your lips without once considering that you may be using him as a means to an end. That you may be taking everything and giving nothing but a mutable façade and empty promises in return.

This seems to be a theme in your life.

He gently tilts your chin, ever mindful of his strength, and leans down to place a chaste kiss against your brow. His breath is warm as he simply rests his cheek on your temple and holds you, breathing into your hair in quick, shallow puffs that you tell yourself not to overanalyze.

For a long, silent moment, you simply allow yourself to be lulled by the deep, steady rise and fall of his rig cage. The baritone rumble of his voice engulfs you in a comforting semblance of safety as he murmurs professions of adoration. It would be so easy to simply fall back into the role that ensured your safety for so many years in the Kyln, to simply forget the world and play pretend at domesticity. But Drax wasn’t exactly playing pretend, was he? Moisture wells in the corners of your eyes and you abruptly press away from the wall of his chest with a choked gasp, scrubbing your face with your sleeves.

You can’t handle this guilt-laden, introspective bullshit right now. Gamora is free and by now Rocket is halfway through gathering the necessary items for your escape. You have to get back to them.

“It is immensely pleasant to hold you in my arms once more, Peter. You do not need to hide your joy at our reunion,” Drax states softly, lifting your chin again and smiling with no more than a tiny, reserved upturn at the corner of his lips. You shake your head and laugh aloud in a mixture of self-deprecation and bemusement at just how terrible Drax is at reading you. “I _am_ happy to see you, Big Guy. It’s been a while and I really wanna catch up with you. I just got some stuff that I gotta do real quick first before all of the joy-ing,” you say, plastering on a giant grin and shoving your hands in your pockets to hide your nervous fidgeting as you back away and pull your chin from his upraised palm. In an instant his countenance goes flat and indecipherable.

“As I recall, it has been five years since you last had to ‘do something’ expediently. Five years that I have waited patiently to hear the excuses for your duplicitous escape. Five years in which I could not wash your scent from my sheets nor the memories of you from my hearts. I have learned my lesson well, Peter Quill. You are not leaving my sight,” he states flatly, fury boiling beneath his sharp glare.

Apparently his hair-trigger temper hasn’t mellowed during your absence.

You quickly avert your eyes from the challenge of his gaze and purposefully drop your shoulders with a soft grunt in acquiescence. The display is enough to quell his anger to only a light simmer. It’s funny, you think, how animalistic body language is in the Kyln, as if the price of admission includes a mandatory reversion to your baser instincts. The years apart didn’t dull your mastery of its use one iota.

But, as your little melodrama continues to unfold, Rocket’s countdown blares alarmingly in the back of your mind. It’s a stark reminder that you need to wrap this scene up and get the fuck out.

“I didn’t mean to leave you behind, Drax; there was no way to get you out of isolation when Dren commandeered the transport shuttle. Believe me, I tried. I was honestly going to come back, it just took a little bit longer than I expected. But the folks I came here with this time have an awesome escape plan for us. For _all_ of us,” you lie outright, tentatively stepping close enough to go up on your toes and place a kiss to heavy line of his jaw. You can feel the slip slide of tendon beneath your lips as he grinds his teeth. “Give me your word, Peter. Give me your vow that I may trust you in this,” he demands, mien guarded, but hopeful as he looks to you. The note of desperation in his voice strikes you in the gut so forcibly that you fight the urge to curl in on yourself.

“Yeah, man. You got it,” you say quietly as your voice threatens to break. “We have about an hour, umm, like a solar unit or so before we need to be in the main antechamber. We should probably go soon.”

Muscular arms wrap around you like a thick shroud.

“Then I have a solar unit in which to remind you of where you truly belong. I will not allow you to leave this complex without bearing the mark of my claim,” he states grimly, but the hand that slips down to cup your ass appears incongruous with the gravity of his tone.

“Waitaminute, is this a sex thing? Oh shit, this is about to be a sex thing, isn’t it?” you protest, pushing your hands into the tight press of his scored stomach and your own. You futilely attempt to push yourself away from his chest, but don’t have enough leverage to gain more than a centimeter.

Drax merely raises a brow, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth belays the smile that he’s ruthlessly suppressing.

His moods have always been difficult to anticipate, constantly in flux. But the lightning fast shift between anger, affection, and apparently lust in just the past five minutes is giving you whiplash. Your feeble Terran brain isn’t cut out for this shit.

“Drax, buddy, we don’t have time for bendy sexcapades,” you exclaim, squirming ridiculously in his steely grasp. A deep, rumbling laugh rolls beneath your skin where you are pressed against the breadth of his barrel chest.

“Then I suggest that you silence your protests and strip with haste,” he purrs.

“Draaaaax, you were angry like two seconds ago,” you whine, marveling at just how easy it is to fall back into the awkward, but comfortable banter that the two of you have always shared.

“And now I am not. Curb your infantile protestation and allow me to assist you,” he retorts.

You breathe a deep sigh of relief both literally and figuratively. Light-hearted teasing and sex you can handle. However, grappling with the confusing tangle of emotion that threatens to destroy you in a conflagration of guilt, resentment, and reluctant affection is beyond your means.

At his command, you allow him to undress you with slow, practiced ease. Drax drags the hem of your shirt up the scored planes of your abdominals in increments. He kneels before you to worship each inch of revealed skin with a searing line of kisses that shoot straight into your groin and make your breath hitch. Impatience gets the better of you and the shirt is absently torn over your head and discarded onto the floor; your boots and pants soon follow, but not before Drax takes the opportunity to palm your half-hard cock through the thin, cotton-like material.

“Despite your extended absence, your body knows with whom you belong,” Drax rumbles, voice thick with budding arousal. You don’t have the heart to tell him that, unlike his race, humans don’t need mate-specific pheromones to get turned on. To be honest, sometimes even a stiff breeze can take you by surprise.

Instead, you glance down and intensely study the sight of his blue lips against your skin as he runs his teeth and tongue along the bulging V of your abdominals, the movement slow and sensuous. The artificial lighting in the Kyln showers reflects mutedly off of Drax’s head as he dips further to run his lips against the base of your now fully erect cock. He inhales deeply, memorizing the scent of you, and runs the broad surface of his tongue along your dick from root to head in one long, luxuriant stroke.              

You have to bite your lip to hold back the keening moan that builds in your throat.

With a circumferential swipe of his tongue around your cock-head, he places his full lips around the ring of his own saliva and sucks you into the heat of his mouth with a lurid slurp. Sparks flit at the edges of your vision and all of thoughts of time constraints are swept away. Your cock twitches and aches as if it’s never been touched before, drawing out a long, ragged groan despite your best efforts to hold it back.

The combination of Drax’s skill and preternaturally heated mouth is too much for you to handle. But, before he has a chance to begin fellating you in earnest, you brusquely push his face away, hands on either side of his thick jaw. “Holy fuck. It’s been too long, Drax. I won’t last two seconds like that,” you mumble in an attempt to placate what he would view as a rebuffing of his affections.

He grunts in understanding, but says nothing further. Sinking down to your knees as well, you surge forward to chase the taste of your own pre-come in a deep, wet kiss. The enthusiasm with which Drax returns the kiss is absolutely filthy. He cradles the base of your neck and holds you in place as his tongue slides against your own and his lips press hard enough to bruise. It’s as if he is devouring you, consuming everything that you are and filling those voids with his love.

Finally breaking apart, you press several chaste kisses to his knuckles, marveling at the heat that rages just beneath his skin. “What would you have me do?” he asks huskily whilst carding his fingers through your hair.

The question takes you by surprise. He’s such a massive, violent force, brokering no argument or challenge to his command. Yet, somehow, you are the exception. Its as if he reserves all of his gentleness specifically for you, especially in these moments of intimacy.

“Let’s go get wet,” you say with an exaggerated wink. With luck, the scent of soap and chemicals will confound Rocket’s heightened sense of smell.

He shakes his head at you fondly as he has a thousand times before, mistaking your scheming for playfulness.

You both rise stiffly from the floor, knees protesting the abuse, and make your way to a large shower stall. There are no doors, only short partitions that contain a sundry of hygiene products. You have several pretty incredible memories from this particular stall and you know that Drax chose it on purpose.

This was where you first spread yourself for him.

As a matter of fact, there are still cracks in the wall from the intensity of that first intimacy.

You wait for Drax to perfunctorily shed those hideous yellow uniform bottoms, then turn the water on. The temperature indicator light flashes gold and you adjust it towards the colder side of the spectrum. You know from experience that Drax’s skin burns wickedly hot when he gets to work.

You hear his heavy footsteps approach and splash through the shallow pools collecting on the poorly leveled tile. Taking in a deep, fortifying breath, you turn.

Drax only has a couple of inches in height on you, but about 400 more pounds of muscle. He wears it well. His cut deltoids carry the aesthetic line of his clavicle across his broad shoulders and down into the massive bulge of biceps that can curl an entire transport pod with ease. His latissimi dorsi flare out from his ribs like a cobra’s hood, and arch down into the thickest set of abdominals you’ve ever seen.

The man is a powerhouse.

“Wow,” you begin, allowing your eyes to rove down his body and finally settle on the two rock solid hemipenes pulsing against the dangerous V of his hips. “I actually don’t have any words right now.”

“A rare occasion, as I recall,” Drax drawls as he steps into the cool shower spray and reaches to pull you firmly against him. He grinds his hips in shallow, serpentine patterns that trap your erection between his own, the pleasurable friction of which threatens to tear down the stars around you. You gasp and curl your toes against the tile, bucking your own hips artlessly towards the channel between his dual cocks. With a soft chuckle, he grabs the taper of your waist and spins you towards the wall where you plant your hands on the discolored surface to keep from slipping. Blood is pumping furiously to where you need it most, leaving you lightheaded and needy. You can’t help but clench your teeth against the near-pain of arousal.

Suddenly, Drax kicks apart your legs, lightly, but still hard enough to make you wince. It’s good that he’s not taking his time, that he’s taking the countdown seriously enough not to draw this out as he is typically wont to do.

You abruptly cough into your fist to cover up the flinch when you hear the tell-tale pop of a repurposed bottle of conditioner. Water sluices down the back of your neck and your locked arms as you brace yourself against the wall in preparation of the thick digits that you know will begin pressing into you at any moment. Drax’s hands are calloused and rough as they rasp against the skin of your back and finally settle on your hips, absolutely engulfing you with their size. The motion is meant to be comforting, you know, but the slight tremor in your arms begins to suffuse your entire body as well. “Relax, Peter,” he says, pressing soft lips against your ear, “your body will remember me just as sweetly as it has countless times before.”

The seemingly endless days and nights spent at Drax’s side flash through your mind unbidden. Memories, made fonder with age, swell against your breastbone and threaten to break you in twain. This is Drax. The man who protected you, provided for you while asking so little in return.

You can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

Your brain has a tendency of romanticizing shit in the worst way, and apparently survival fucking is no exception. Miraculously, your unattractive, snorting laughter dissolves a portion of the trepidation that shakes your body so.

“You are distracted,” Drax states, gripping your hips more tightly. “Perhaps I should be more diligent in my attempts to garner your attentions,” he purrs, voice dropping in register and turning his ‘r’s into little rolling growls.

Shaking your head, you turn to look at him out of the corner of your eye. “I thought I was supposed to be the talkative one,” you say playfully. The small grin that receive in response sets off a cascade of warmth spreading throughout your belly. And it is that tiny expression of warmth and acceptance that finally makes the shivers ease and the muscles of your back soften. This is Drax. Even if he isn’t the knight in shining armor that your faulty memory claims he is, you know that everything he says is genuine, that every caress is motivated by nothing more sinister than affection.

Surely it can’t hurt to just ignore reality for the time being and actively enjoy this little respite. Just this once.

Drax presses down on your shoulders until your face and upper-chest lie against the dingy shower-room wall while simultaneously reaching over you to turn the shower temperature lower. His dual shafts press against the cleft of your ass as he leans against you and makes you worry your lip against the bitter amalgamation of anticipation and anxiety. Slightly off-color water laps at your hair and blinds you with spray.

“Breathe,” Drax orders softly as his fingers deftly circle the ring of muscle about your anus in smooth, firm strokes. The cloying reek of mildew clogs your nose and makes your eyes water, but you follow his command regardless.

Despite the years of abstinence in this respect, your body opens up to Drax’s skilled fingers beautifully. Sweet little huffs of pleasure rhythmically displace the water droplets on the wall next to your lips.

Thinking through the haze of lust and need is almost impossible and it genuinely takes you by surprise when the searing heat of one of Drax’s blunt cock-heads replaces his fingers. But there is no mistaking that phallus for anything other than the behemoth it is as he shallowly thrusts centimeter by girthy centimeter into your hole. Despite the dutiful preparation, conditioner is a poor lubricant for an intrusion of his size, and the dull, burning ache of penetration makes you wince.

“I missed you, Peter Quill,” Drax whispers reverently against the shell of your ear while he slowly sinks into you. His second cock presses beneath your scrotum and slides deliciously along the vein on the underside of your own dick.

You sigh, the sound quiet and soft, and arch back into the firestorm of Drax’s body. How can a man make you feel this wanted, this beautiful? You balk at the shame of how flagrantly you’ve manipulated his affections, and your erection begins to flag. Of course, Drax notices immediately, but mistakenly assumes that it’s from the pain and attempts to ameliorate the situation by wrapping a huge hand around both his cock and your own. He increases the power of his thrusts and angles his hips such that he strokes that tiny bundle of nerves within you on each pass of his swollen glans. His secondary phallus caresses your balls and brutally stimulates your own member within the callused channel of his hand.

His breath against your hair comes in shallow pants that mirror the desperation of your own.

“Fuuuuck,” you moan into the wall as each surge of Drax’s hips lifts you onto your toes, then drops you back to your heels when he pulls near completely out.

But then the heavy weight on your back shifts away as he urges your thighs apart even further. Your dick bobs freely in the air and your scrotum swings like a metronome until he resettles his hand around your dick and his own once more. Maintaining modesty has never been your forte, but here in the communal showers, spread wide with your ass in the air and stretched to the breaking point on Drax’s monster cock, you can’t help but squirm at how exposed you are. He presses your shoulders down even further, forcing your cheek to slide along the dirty tile and catch painfully against the uneven grout lines. But you pay the momentary discomfort no mind, instead choking on a reedy whine as the cock inside of you shifts to press unerringly against your prostate.

Tepid water swirls around the shower drain like a lazy tornado, obscured by ripples with each shift of your feet in the shallow pool collecting around you. In this position you almost feel as if you’ve been reduced to a hollow shell of a man. A receptacle.

A loud, sudden sucking sound bursts forth from the drain and startles you, almost chiding you for your inappropriate, completely inaccurate train of thought. Sure, you may be a duplicitous piece of shit, but Drax genuinely loves you.

“Brace yourself,” he growls behind you in the dirtiest, most filthy phone-sex –operator voice you can imagine. The warning in his words scatters your dark thoughts so effectively than your jaw drops to protest.

With that, he begins fucking you in earnest.

You slam your forearm against the wall to keep your head from impacting and reach back to claw your fingers into his side like an anchor. It’s all you can do not to scream as he repeatedly slams into you and mercilessly strokes your cock with his own. The over-stimulation is almost unbearable.

Your jaw hangs open and your eyes well with tears as each thrust ruthlessly tears away at your composure. As his hips slap loudly against your buttocks, you claw welts into the bulge of muscle over Drax’s hip as if to mark your own place in the scarified history of his life. Release crashes through you unexpectedly, the surprise of which tears a scream from you that echoes in the large chamber as you paint stripes on the wall with each spurt.

Drax groans behind you and the hand that encompasses your pulsing dick tightens imperceptibly. He must be fucking _wrecked_ if he’s lost his own composure enough to voice his pleasure. With a final pistoning of his hips, he fills you with a deluge of come so hot that you can feel it race through your bowels.

You both stand there in the cool spray for a long moment, trying to get your rapid breathing under control.

Without warning, Drax hooks his massive hands beneath your knees and lifts, spreading you wide open, your softening dick bobbing in the shower spray. There is a dull ache as he pulls your legs apart further than is completely comfortable, but you say nothing and instead drop your head back on his broad shoulder and press a soft kiss against the underside of his jaw as he dutifully allows the combination of water and gravity to clean you out.

The flood of unexpected gratitude and an emotion that you would rather not consider makes it even more difficult to breathe than when you were half drowning in the spray of water.

You can’t figure out whether your attraction is genuine, or if the affection you bear for him is simply a matter of survival-based conditioning and guilt for having betrayed his immense trust in you. But you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out along the way.

Drax flinches when the security alarm blares so loudly that the water on your skin jumps in acrobatic little arcs. “I quite admire the subtlety of your plan,” he states dryly, allowing you to stand on your own once more. You grin at his unexpectedly wry sarcasm and can’t help but chuckle at the evidence of your influence.

However, before you can answer with a tactlessly ribald response, he pulls you forward and shuts you up with a searing kiss that sends the message of his love coursing through your blood like a firestorm. You push him back, your face split by the most honest smile that you’ve worn in a long while, and shake your head as you stand up fully. The hand that you hesitantly slide into his palm surprises you both.

“Come-on, Big Guy, we gotta get dressed and go,” you say softly as you avoid his questioning gaze by studying the dichotomy of his large, work-hardened fingers intertwined with your own. The tender smile that you receive in return burrows its way into your heart.


End file.
